


We Buy Ugly Houses

by Arsenic



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Bat Family, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Family Issues, Fluff, Heat Stroke, Holidays, House Hunting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 23:44:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16820839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/pseuds/Arsenic
Summary: Tim is fed up with Jason living in rat-holes.  (Written for the Bingo Square: "curled up by the fireplace.")





	We Buy Ugly Houses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cadkitten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadkitten/gifts).



> Huge thank you to Paranault for the excellent beta, this story is MUCH improved. All remaining mistakes are mine and probably the result of me ignoring guidance.
> 
> Recip! Thank you for this prompt, I loved filling it, and hope you enjoy reading at least half as much.
> 
> Canon notes: uh, pre-52 canon, I guess, as pretty much everything is in my head. I think it's pretty clear that there's some presumption that Jason's actions were at least somewhat guided by the Pit's influence on him, although I don't really get into a lot of that. In any case, he's clearly on at least speaking terms with the Family, and better-than-speaking terms with Tim.

It's the dead of summer when Tim finally convinces Jason to get a place that isn't a safehouse, isn't somewhere to squat, is an actual home. Tim has been working his offensive on this front for over a year. He had started with, "Jay, I love you, but either you come back to my place, or we don't fuck, because I'm not ending this evening with a roach somewhere it was never intended to go."

Jason might have been slightly distracted from arguing with Tim's assessment of his place by the off-hand declaration of love. Granted, the apartment only had two windows, was over a restaurant that had failed safety inspection three times, and featured a kitchen that was more of a…hot plate. So, there hadn't really been much to defend. Still, he might have without Tim tossing around words like "love," which Jason wanted to cling to with both hands and feet. He'd half-heartedly said, "It's not that bad," and then gone back to Tim's place.

Then there had been the place where something had clearly died in the walls. Jason doesn't talk about the fact that a side effect of coming back from the dead seems to be that certain senses—touch, say—are heightened to the power of eleventy-hundred, while others got dialed down to about three. When Tim had said, "Gonna be sick," Jason hadn't admitted he'd honestly thought someone had just spilled milk in the carpeting at some point and not cleaned it before it had spoiled.

The one in city-center, which is convenient as hell, is also one room, and has a shower next to the kitchen sink. Even Jason can see what bothers Tim about that.

Jason wouldn't say that living in shitty spaces is comfortable, but it's _familiar_ , and the two emotions can be very hard to separate at times. Tim's place makes Jason itch under his damn skin with the feeling he doesn't belong. It's the penthouse in one of Gotham's most exclusive high-rises, with three hundred and sixty degree views out to the bay, and too high up to see all the squalor that lies between the building and the water. The kitchen has fixtures like a custom stainless steel vent hood and a refrigerator that Jason _knows_ is thinking about killing them all and taking over as a robot overlord. The coffee maker once frustrated him nearly to tears. Tim has a bathtub that's styled like a clawfoot, but fits both of them and has jets, and a shower that half of Arkham could probably fit in.

Okay, so Jason _does_ like Tim's bed, but he thinks that's understandable: it has Tim in it. 

Otherwise, the place makes him intensely aware of how he has already failed at belonging once. He can't stand to again.

But when Jason gets heat stroke because the windows won't open in the not-exactly-converted warehouse he's been using as a home base, and Tim finds him lying on the cement floor next to his own sick, Tim has a tiny meltdown. Tim's meltdowns are so self-contained they can be hard to notice, but Jason is about as dialed into Tim as a person can get without some kind of Martian telepathy. Even when Jason wanted to rip Tim apart limb-by-limb, the madness of the pit and the agony of loss being most of Jason's emotional makeup, even then Tim had been something he couldn't possibly ignore, had trouble looking away from.

Jason often thinks he'd have been less pissed about Bruce giving Tim the Robin mantle if it hadn't been obvious from day one how much better than him Tim was in every way. And now, now that Tim has let go of the past and decided Jason is worth his time, his heart, now Jason notices him even more. He knows he's not going to get to keep Tim—Jason knows all about how all good things must come to an end—but fuck everything if he's not going to have every second of his time with Tim cemented in his mind, every move, every word, every damn breath.

So, yeah, Jason notices when Tim's hands tremble ever so slightly, when his breathing isn't as smooth as it normally is. In the early days of their relationship, he would have mocked the reaction, refused to acknowledge he had any part in it.

Tim is braver than anyone Jason has ever known, but he experiences the same terror as Jason of losing the few things that are his. And Jason might be stubborn, but he isn't dumb. He's more than willing to sacrifice a bit of his pride to keep Tim even a few minutes longer. "Sorry I scared you."

Tim runs his hands over his face and says, "We all—we do what we do, Jay. And we all accept that in each other, the risks we're going to take. But it's just fucking stupid that you treat yourself like this in the off hours. It's—you deserve better. You deserve safety and comfort just as much as the rest of us if not more. And I deserve to know that you're safe and comfortable."

The last statement is what breaks Jason. Because Tim's voice wavers over it, like he's not entirely sure he deserves anything. Jason says, "Okay. Um. Help me find a place? I've never—I don't even know where to start."

The relief in Tim's body language is hard to watch. Tim leans in and kisses Jason, saying, "That I can help with."

*

Despite the fact that it's hotter than Satan's balls while they're condo shopping, Jason rejects the first place out of hand with, "Doesn't have a fireplace."

Tim blinks. "That's a must have? That was not on the list."

"Fix the list," Jason tells him.

"Okay," Tim says, pulling it up on his phone. "Wood burning, gas, electric?"

"Not electric. Has to be—the flames have to be real."

"Got it," Tim says, and doesn't act like Jason's being a total nutball.

Jason hunches up his shoulders and asks, "Where to next?"

*

A lot of superintendents in Jason's neighborhood growing up were real scumbags, but not the super in Jason's building. Reggie Walters lived in one of the six ground floor units, and when Willis got sent to prison and Catherine started using again, he'd worked something out with Jason every single month to help him and his mom not end up on the street. At the time, Jason hadn't realized how much Reggie had let go in rent.

When Jason had leveled out from the Pit, one of the first things he'd done was track Reggie down and send an anonymous donation for "building repairs." Or whatever the hell Reggie wanted to do with it.

The best thing about Reggie, though, was that in the cold months, when Jason and his mom couldn't afford to turn the heat up past sixty, and only that far so the pipes wouldn't freeze, he never complained when Jason would pop down and sit in front of his fireplace for a while. The six ground units had fireplaces—and two bedrooms each—whereas the rest of the units were single-bedrooms or studios with absolutely zero frills. Back then, Jason didn't know how lucky he was Reggie did his best to keep the building appropriately insulated, even if he couldn't afford to deal with things like peeling paint and linoleum, low water pressure, weathered windows, or an insufficient water heater.

Reggie's unit was cleaner than Jason's—presumably because Reggie, as an adult, had a better grasp on how to clean than pre-adolescent Jason, and considerably better reach—and it had the aforementioned fireplace, which, in the winter, was akin to magic.

When Jason had moved into the Manor, out of all the things that had been incredible to him—the abundance of food, the beds without springs poking out, the regular hot water—his absolute favorite had been the preponderance of gigantic fireplaces. There'd even been one in his room. He would cajole Alfred into letting him light fires until well into spring and would begin again as soon as the first bare hints of fall crept up.

Just the smell of a fire starting up, that first crack of spitting flame, makes Jason feel safe, like everything will be okay for a few minutes. It warms him without burning, without _hurting_ , and the phantom sensation of a virtual stranger's kindness settles in his chest.

Jason knows it's not the actual heat that makes him crave a fireplace. Fireplaces in well-heated homes aren't even particularly efficient or practical. He's read enough psychology theory books to have the idea that the need is psychosomatic. 

He doesn't care. If he's buying a home, it's damn well going to have a fireplace.

*

Tim says, "Okay, just—give this place a chance, I think it could be what you need."

The place in question is one side of a duplex in a neighborhood that was middle-class fashionable sometime in the seventies and eighties, but is dated and overwhelmingly working-class now. Jason likes it immediately. It's squat and brick, but there are kids playing on several lawns dotting the street, well-tended flower boxes in the windows of the adjacent unit, and it's on a quiet cul-de-sac.

"Sure," Jason says, as Tim fiddles with the lockbox. Jason suspects Tim might have gotten a realtor's license just so Jason wouldn't have to deal with third parties. 

Tim gets the door open and says, "The couple who's selling evidently lived here for twenty years. Their agent said they moved to be with their kids."

It's not large. The first floor is carpeted in baby blue shag and the walls are a more electric blue. It's hideous, as is the floor-to-ceiling stone veneer fireplace, and the kitchen, which includes orange Formica countertops and fluorescent lighting. There's surprisingly good natural light, though, with a large window over the kitchen sink, and a sliding door at the back. Jason can see a small paved patio out there, and a tiny yard surrounded by a privacy fence.

Jason grins and says, "I like it."

Tim smiles slowly. "Yeah?"

Jason doesn't know how to explain that it's the kind of home he saw on old TV shows as a kid, when he got glances of a neighbor's bunny-eared and static-laden 12-inch. It's the kind of home Jason thought of as paradise back then. Like if he could have gotten somewhere similar to this for him and his mom, everything might have been all right. 

He doesn't know how to say that while it's ugly, it's well-kept, and it shows every sign that someone poured love into it. So he just shrugs. "Yeah. There's an upstairs?"

There is. It houses two bedrooms and one four-piece bathroom. The shag on this floor is a lime-green color, with the walls a slightly more sedate soft yellow. In the second bedroom, the smaller one, someone has customized book shelves in what Jason thinks might be walnut, creating built-ins on three of the four walls. Jason says quietly, "This is what caught your eye."

"They're beautiful," Tim says. "And you'll use them."

Jason trails his hand over one of the shelves. "Put in an offer at full asking price."

"The property isn't worth what they're asking."

Jason looks at Tim. "To whom?"

Tim's entire posture softens and he steps into Jason's space. "Okay. Asking price."

*

Tim insists on Jason getting a quality bed, and unfairly cajoles him into going to a mattress place with promises of trying out beds together, which is a thing people evidently do in mattress stores. Jason's never really gotten over just having somewhere to land that's clean and decently comfortable. The wealth of choices is overwhelming and he's feeling a little low-key panicked until Tim faceplants into one and says, "Holy shit, Jason. I'm never leaving this mattress."

Jason might not ask much from a mattress, but keeping Tim in bed with him? Check.

Tim tries to talk him into a headboard, "Like a real adult, Jay," but Jason's not ready for that. He gets the basic frame and considers it a win that he's not putting the mattress on the floor.

The rest of the furniture Jason gathers in his own time. It's a slow process filled with random trips to the better thrift stores in Gotham, trawling Craigslist, and once—only once—a day spent lost in an IKEA in Metropolis. There's no theme or aesthetic outside of Jason liking each piece, which means most things are either super cozy or highly utilitarian. Sometimes both.

The bookshelves are still largely empty, but he's filling those, too. There are the books Tim brought him in a plastic-sealed box from the Manor, all of them with his name printed neatly in the front cover. _To Kill A Mockingbird_ still has a bookmark where he left it before heading to Ethiopia. There are the ones he collected in his travels under Talia's guiding hand, written in the languages he was picking up. There are the ones he paid pennies for on his first date with Tim—a day at the Gotham U annual fall library sale. 

(It had been Tim's suggestion. He'd said, "I challenge you to show this little rich kid how to find a bargain." 

Jason had laughed. "That whole sale is a bargain." 

Tim had shrugged. "Then it's gonna be _really_ sad if you fail.")

The only book that doesn't go on the shelves is the one Tim gave him for his birthday, an oversized photographic and historical overview of Gotham. That one goes on the walnut coffee table he bargained for on Craigslist. It matches the shelves, but goes in front of the sofa in the den.

Jason still can't say the words, "my home," or "my place" in his head, let alone aloud, but he calls it "the house," with a tone of fondness that never fails to make Tim smile.

*

Alfred finds out about the house because Tim has no ability to keep anything from Alfred. (Neither does Jason, but Jason is cagey enough to avoid being in a situation where he might give something away.)

Naturally this means Jason comes back from patrol in the middle of the damn night at the end of November to find Alfred—presumably having either cajoled Tim into giving him the key, or having stolen it off Tim—decorating for Christmas. Jason stands in his front entry looking at the way Alfred has managed to infuse a surprisingly tasteful holiday atmosphere, that is, given the house as a base. There's a small but real tree by the fireplace, and most of the décor is in white and gold, with occasional hints of a forest green.

He says, "What."

"Good evening, Master Jason. As you did not see fit to invite me to tour your new home, I took the initiative to help you prepare for the upcoming festivities."

Jason removes his boots and leaves them by the door. He's a mass of conflicting emotions. There's the part of him that's always glad to see Alfred, to be taken care of in small or large ways by his pseudo-grandfather. There's the part of him that can only imagine what Alfred thinks of this tiny throwback of a house and is cringing. And there's an equal part that is defensive as fuck, because he loves his tiny, ugly house, thanks very much. It doesn't matter what other people think.

Alfred says, "I made some Indian spiced tea, if you'd care to join."

That’s just playing dirty. Alfred knows how much Jason enjoys spiced teas. Diffidently he says, "None of my cups match."

"Indeed, they're each delightfully unique."

Jason listens for the sarcasm, but if there is any, it's too oblique for him to catch. His drinkware is a collection of used tea cups and mugs he's found at yard sales, on clearance racks, random places since buying the house. It makes no more sense than his furniture, but they're all pretty, and Jason doesn't want to choose just one kind of pretty.

Alfred pours the tea and for a moment they sip silently, across from each other at the peninsula. After a bit, Jason cracks and says, "Thanks for the decorations. It looks nice in here."

Alfred smiles. "It was already homey. I just added a bit of seasonal flair."

"It's not the Manor, I know."

Alfred shakes his head ever-so-minutely. "It's your Manor, young master."

Jason hasn’t thought of it that way until now, but Alfred's right. That's exactly what it is.

*

Jason has been buying cords of wood from his grocery store, but when the chill settles in around the third of December, he decides it's time to take care of things the cheap but labor-intensive way and steal one of Bruce's trees. It's possible Jason just likes the idea of stealing a tree from Bruce. Who can say?

He pokes around in the woods that create a partial property line behind the Manor, until he finds one showing signs of rot, and settles into taking it down. He hasn't even felled the thing when Bruce shows up with his own ax.

Jason plants the ax he's been using in the ground and leans on it, asking, "Do you have drones surveying the woods?"

"You tripped one of the border sensors," Bruce says.

Jason's going to have to brush up on the Manor's security. He says, "I need this tree."

He expects Bruce to argue. That's most of what they do these days. Instead, Bruce nods. "Alfred said there was a wood-burning fireplace at your new house."

Jason's not sure how to respond to that. He's never sure, anymore, how to handle the suggestion that Bruce somehow cares about him. It's too dangerous to let himself think it might be real, but he can't bring himself to reject it out of hand, either. The Pit madness at least had that to say for itself: his rage filtered out everything else. He ends up saying, "I like fireplaces."

Bruce looks at the tree. "Let me help you with this."

Jason's hand tightens on the hilt of his ax. "You don't have to."

"I know, Jaybird," Bruce's response is so quiet Jason can barely make it out. "But I want to."

Jason is completely aware he's the equivalent of a feral wolf who keeps coming close enough to the fire to be at least singed, if not entirely engulfed in flames. Evidently, though, he's too damn stupid to learn from being burnt, because he says, "Yeah, okay."

*

Christmas Eve is usually pretty quiet in Gotham, assuming nobody has broken out of Arkham or Blackgate recently. Jason patrols for a bit, because the family won't be out tonight, and while O's never completely offline, she won't be dialed in at the moment. He doesn't want anyone thinking it's fine to start shit on major holidays, so a little bit of swinging around and watching over the city is worth it. And, okay, maybe he doesn't want to be home alone on a night when everyone else who matters or could matter or might matter is together. Still, things are dead, and he heads home around eleven.

He notices the flickering light in his window on his approach, and tightens a hand on his gun as he quietly unlocks the front door. He might not have done a lot of cosmetic work to the house, but he sure as hell put in a variety of security measures, so it's improbable whoever's in there is unfriendly, but not impossible. 

Sure enough, Tim peers over the back of the couch at Jason, blinking his eyes sleepily. He's in the soft blue t-shirt he stole from Jason the first time they ever slept together, and the disarray of his hair is backlit by the fire he's got going. Tim reaches out and makes grabby hands at him, mumbling, "M'ry Chis'mas."

Jason grins. "Hi dear."

"Pajamas," Tim says, as firmly as possible given that he still seems to be two-thirds asleep. "Cuddling."

"Sure," Jason agrees, and traipses up to his room to change into his sleepwear. When he gets back downstairs, Tim is waiting for him, tucked into a tiny ball on the couch. Jason sits down and scoops Tim into his lap so they can cuddle together. He kisses the space behind Tim's ear and says, "Woulda let you be the small spoon even without the pocket-Tim body language."

Tim snuggles into him, almost trying to burrow. "Yup, you like to spoil me."

Jason skritches at his hair. "How'd dinner go?"

"Oh, you know. Damian and I fought to the pain, Dick brought out as many Christmas puns as he'd managed to store up this year, Cass bared her teeth at Bruce when he tried to take the yams from her, and Steph kept trying to help Alfred and Alfred kept trying to get her to sit down. So, the norm. How was patrol?"

"Quiet. Woulda come home sooner if I'd know I was coming home to this."

"I can be surprising. A nice surprise."

Jason frowns. "You're always a nice surprise, babe."

"Mm," Tim says, and it sounds like agreement, but then, things often do with Tim.

"Hey."

"You should be at those dinners."

Jason feels the _not me_ so sharply it's almost as if Tim has actually said it. Jason breathes through his nose for a few seconds before making himself offer, "I could come tomorrow. If—would that help?"

Tim twists so that he's facing Jason. "One of these days, yeah. Because you're gonna feel welcome and you're going to know it's where you belong. But tomorrow, I brought leftovers including the honey-infused bourbon pecan pie Alfred made entirely for you, and we're gonna have Christmas morning, just the two of us."

Jason dips his chin so he can kiss Tim. Like always, he tastes of too-strong coffee. Jason has grown to love the taste, despite not really enjoying coffee himself. "Love you."

Tim smiles, everything about him softened in the glow of the fire. "Me too. Most."

"Agree to disagree," Jason says, stealing another kiss.

Tim makes a face at him and then tucks his head back under Jason's chin. Jason closes his eyes, tuning into the sound of the fire crackling and Tim's slowing breaths. He's not sure there's ever been a more perfect kind of quiet.


End file.
